Quintessence of Dust
by kumulonimbus
Summary: "That dust and this dust were not the same element, of that he was sure." Erron Black faces the differences between Outworld and Earthrealm - or maybe just the differences between the man he used to be and the one he has become. (One-shot)


_A/N: This is a small idea I had in my mind for quite some time – it derived from my main Erron fic Debris, when Alex (one of the protagonists of said fic) asks Black: "Does it feel the same with an Outworlder?" Enjoy!_

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 **Quintessence of Dust.**

"And now I know more than ever that I have squandered all my best years! I realize that now… Now, as I sit next to you and talk with you, I feel positively terrified of the future, because in that future loneliness lurks once more, again that musty, pointless existence."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky – White Nights

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His dusty boots were a reminder for him – telling him where he was: far from home. The concept of a home never truly anchored within him, that's true, but yet each day spent in Outworld was a scarlet-colored flag telling him about everything he had left behind. The discrepancies between Outworld and the Old West were slowly fading before him with each passing day but he was certain there still was a clear, strongly demarcated frontier separating those realms. _That_ dust and _this_ dust were not the same element, of that he was sure.

Take the air, for example – it was thicker, more polluted in here. This air was heavier – he could actually feel the weight of the wind blowing around him; it was denser, warmer; it had a smell of its own.

No, _that_ air and _this_ air were not the same thing.

Take sex, for example.

 _That_ sex and _this_ sex were not the same thing either.

Light years away from the one he used to be, his detached memory couldn't fool him yet. This realm could never suffice the needs and cravings of a man of his nature – one that has seen so much, lived so much, done so much. _His nature_ – how many others like him were out there, scattered everywhere, like seeds waiting for the right wind to blow?

None.

He was one of a kind, he knew.

And so were his needs, his cravings – his demanding, engulfing urges.

He walked up to his balcony and let his forearms rest on the railings then looked over his shoulder, his gaze traveling way past the dancing curtains, up to his bed – he seethed as he shook his head bluntly: his constant sense of self-criticism had got to him once more. But that wasn't enough for his wandering, explorative eyes to stop: up to his bed, tangled between the sheets: the dormant body reminding him that _that_ sex and _this_ sex were simply not the same thing. He cursed under his breath, aggravated by the sudden, striking affront of having his needs faced by the utmost banality: sex with an Outworlder was simply not the same.

The extent of the notion, resonating through his core; the question hovering before his tired eyes: why?

He walked back to his bed and stared at the sleeping woman.

It was not a problem of incompatible mechanisms nor was it something entirely, purely physical. Black eyed the woman speculatively, as if demanding an answer from her. It wasn't the skin, nor the extremes they were willing to go to in order to satisfy their carnal urges – it was something else; it was something entirely different.

He crawled back to bed, his boots being the only piece of clothing he was wearing, then he placed himself beside the woman, his fingers traveling the length of her body, connecting her shoulder to her waist with an invisible line. It wasn't the touch, either – he could feel each pore in her skin reacting inadvertently to his adventurous digits, the burning trail left by them delimitating his fixation, shaping it, molding it.

The woman rolled on her shoulder and opened her eyes in surprise.

"Still wearing those boots, I see." She said.

He grinned, partially entranced by his own ritualistic behavior.

"As the saying goes, soldiers do it with their boots on." His voice boasted proudly, having his senses restored to him; those words snapping back quickly and certain; his lips curling up slightly at the sound of his own voice caressing his now elated manhood.

No, _that_ sex and _this_ sex were not the same – but still, he was exceedingly good at it according to the vision he had of his own self.

The woman smiled at his words with the coldness of a huddling predator waiting to attack. Then she jumped out of the bed and leaned forwards – the immensity of her deadpan shadow towering over him. Being a prostitute in Outworld was difficult to say the least but tolerating delusions of grandeur from strangers was a whole different thing.

"Why would you say such a thing? Being a man is not enough?"

With that she dressed up and left his chamber, leaving him numb and pensive. Perhaps the woman was not familiarized with Earthrealm sayings or their meanings, but he was positive he had not been rude to her to cause such the venomous reaction he had just witnessed. He sat down on the bed after a few moments in silence then the realization hit him, striking him like lightings on a stormy night: the boots were the answer.

The boots were the difference.

Only the dilemma was not hiding someplace between the realms anymore – it was simply not a matter of Earthrealm versus Outworld: it was _that_ Black against _this_ Black.

He held his head between his sweaty hands, trying to remember the last time he had made love to a woman – but as a man, not as a soldier. He cursed under his breath bitterly, his memory debating whether to go ahead or not; the question once again lingering in front of him: opening the door and letting out all those repressed, sad, sepia-colored memories of a brighter time or leaving that door forever closed, his emotions safe from the isolated beast dwelling deep within him.

He stood up and got dressed after contemplating the options briefly: that door would remain locked, his precious memories contained.

For him, he knew – his mind still preaching him; that a man his age should be more cautious, should be more selective. Tumbling down the whirlpool of buried, cherished moments of his golden past would never be enough to change the essence of the man he had become – the outlaw, the mercenary, the fighter, the soldier – always intricately related to the gore of a senseless violence tainting his black world red.

His dusty boots were a reminder for him – telling him where he was: far from home. The concept of a home never truly anchored within him, that's true, but yet each day spent in Outworld was a scarlet-colored flag telling him about everything he had left behind. The discrepancies between Outworld and the Old West were slowly fading before him with each passing day but he was certain there still was a clear, strongly demarcated frontier separating the man he used to be from the man he was now.

 _That_ man and _this_ man were not the same person, of that he was sure.


End file.
